Understanding
by TolkienGirl
Summary: "Bobby Singer's right about ready for a cold one. He tips his beer back and lets it sluice down his throat, musky and bittersweet. It's been a long day. The sudden, wild pounding at his door tells him it's about to get longer." In which Bobby meets the Winchesters. Wee!Chesters, Fatherly-Bobby feelings. Hurt!John, Big Brother!Dean and Adorable!Sam. NO SLASH. Mild Language.


**A/N: I've had this particular plot bunny in my head for a while. Hope you enjoy! Read and review...please?**

_November 1985_

He's had a damned long day.

One of the dogs stuck its muzzle in a porcupine, and when _that_ hassle was over, he'd had to deal with a poltergeist that had been somehow tangled up with the engine of that old Buick LeSabre that had been dropped off last week.

Bobby Singer's right about ready for a cold one.

He tips his beer back and lets it sluice down his throat, musky and bittersweet. It's been a long day.

The sudden, wild pounding at his door tells him it's about to get longer.

He doesn't recognize the pattern of knocks—and he's no fool. Bobby grabs the shotgun from behind the rocking chair and checks it to make sure that it's loaded with blessed iron.

Funny thing, he gets a share more of the uncanny than of the common tramp.

He's not expecting what he sees when he cracks the door open, eye of the shotgun flush against its panel.

He sees wild eyes beneath matted hair, smells the fresh scent of blood and fear.

The man before him is desperate.

If Bobby's any judge of humanity, this man's been desperate for a long time.

"Who the hell are you?" he demands gruffly, gun steady. Desperation's dangerous.

"Name's Winchester," the man chokes out. "Jim Murphy said you'd put us up for a night."

It's said in a ground-out kind of tone, the tone of a man who doesn't like to ask favors. Bobby understands that. But Bobby's more interested in this Winchester's choice of wording. Pronoun, if y'want to get technical.

"Who's _us_?"

Winchester doesn't answer. A smaller voice, somewhere near knee-high, does for him.

"Daddy?"

Something in Bobby slumps; something else awakens.

The man's got himself a damn kid.

A shape moves from behind Winchester.

_Kids._ There's two of them, a tow-headed youngster with stringbean arms wrapped around a squirmy toddler with a mess of dark curls.

"Dean," Winchester grates out, "I told you to wait in the car."

The youngster shifts back into the shadows. "Sorry, Daddy."

Bobby takes quick stock. Winchester's a hunter, no doubt about that if Jim Murphy sent him this way; he's taken a hard hit and he's got nowhere to go, nowhere to rest up. Nowhere for his kids.

Though why anyone would bring kids on this hellride, Bobby doesn't want to know.

What he does know is that he's in for the haul.

He shifts the shotgun to his side and jerks his head to the side. "No use standing out in the dark."

Winchester gives him a look that's probably the closest he can get to grateful and shuffles through the door. He seems to be favoring his left side, or would be if it were in any shape to favor. The towheaded youngster keeps quick step behind him, his sleepy bundle still clutched in his arms.

He can't be more than six or so, Bobby thinks, studying him. He sees pale, high cheekbones under the dark flecks of freckles, and green eyes that are too tired.

Forget his daddy; kid's about to pitch forward onto the floor.

Bobby nudges one of the dogs off the sofa and figures that the act is enough of an invitation for Winchester to sit down.

He does, the taut lines of his shoulders opening into the creaky exhaustion of pain.

Kid doesn't budge.

"Sit," his father says. It's a growl, Bobby thinks, but not an unkind one. Man's messed up, sure-he's a hunter, he's got kids, and...well, he's brought the darn kids with him, which is practically unheard of. But at least he seems to have some sort of concern for him.

The kid bobs his head, obedient, but still eyeing the whole room with a caution that Bobby would find much easier to stomach if it was just usual youngster shyness. But it's not. The green eyes don't just look tired. They look old.

Bobby doesn't much favor being in the dark. "You mind tellin' me what the hell is going on?" he queries. It's a blunt question, but he says it levelly, so it's sort of polite.

Winchester doesn't seem offended. "Vengeful spirit sent me through a wall," he says briefly. Doesn't even offer a preface, a double-check to make sure that Bobby knows what he's talking about, which means he's either relatively inexperienced or unusually brash. Maybe both.

Bobby thinks of asking him why he didn't stop at a hospital-not that hunters do, in general, but judging from the fact that this guy's got a couple of kids, he obviously plays his cards a bit differently-or why in God's good earth he's off screwing around with vengeful spirits when he's got a family to look after.

He thinks of a lot more questions, too, but he doesn't ask any of them. Just folds his arms over his flannel shirt-front and stares deep into Winchester's eyes. Bobby stopped going to school after eighth grade, but he can read people as well as some pansy college professor can read a dissertation.

He doesn't like what he sees in Winchester, but he doesn't distrust it either. He thinks he sees a good man gone up in flames, a man who's dedicated himself to finding every flake of the ashes.

Wonders why he thinks of _fire_ when he looks at all three of them.

Wonders why he wants to help them.

"I'll show your boys a room, then we'll have a look at that," he says, and glances at the man's ribs.

Turns out Winchester's been reading him, too, 'cause he trusts him enough to say to the older one, "Dean, go with him."

Dean staggers to his feet, still hefting the weight of his chubby little brother in his arms. Holding more than he can carry, this one is. It reminds Bobby of his kid self.

"I'll take him, kid," he offers, reaching out-and glancing at Winchester, who nods-but Dean draws back, eyes locking with his. There's steel in his scrawny arms and his tired eyes, and Bobby's heart just goes out to the kid, without knowing why.

"It's OK," he says, and thinks of putting a hand on the thin shoulder, 'cept he's afraid the kid will shatter or something.

Dean swallows. "I won't drop him," he whispers, voice urgent but steady. "I won't drop him."

Bobby sinks down, to Dean's eye-level. Meets the too-clear, too-knowing gaze without flinching. "Neither will I," he murmurs, and he means it.

A minute later, he's got a snoring toddler cradled against his shoulder, and the trust of a clear-eyed kid who knows a promise when he hears one.


End file.
